


The Arena

by orphan_account



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Medieval Times AU, Modern Setting, Pining, actor!Damen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 04:20:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12856623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Good luck,” Laurent says softly, and his voice catches in the mic.  The crowd titters.  Before Damianos can pull away, Laurent drifts his hand down, surreptitiously covering the mic and he whispers in Damianos’ other ear, “You and my brother are going to regret the day you were born.  I do not like being made a fool of.”Then he steps back and there’s a tick in his chest, a moment of hesitation because Damianos looksconfused.But Laurent refuses to be had again.  He walks back to his seat and he picks up his phone and sees a single message there.You’re full of surprises, little brother..





	The Arena

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mxlfoydraco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxlfoydraco/gifts).



> Written for my wonderful salt-mate Serra, who has been a BAMF this semester. I'm so proud of you, love.
> 
> This is a sort of Medieval Times AU except gladiators. With Damen and co as the actors, and Laurent as the unsuspecting customer who is taken in by those Gladiator-sized thighs. Because who wouldn't be.

“Is this a joke?”

Auguste gives his brother a careful smile, shrugging lightly as he reaches for the goblet perched at the end of their table. There’s some food, more to be delivered a little while into the match, but for now the cheeses are soft, and the bread is fresh, and Auguste is in the most amiable mood. “I thought you might enjoy the sport.”

Laurent pokes the tip of his knife into a wedge of soft cheese, then glances down at the circled arena where the dirt is dark with sweat and…well, Laurent isn’t sure what else. The doors at the far end are still closed, but for a moment Laurent swears he can hear the deep rumble of an animal. His nerves are singing.

The crowd seems strangely hungry for this—the very idea of death and dismemberment fuelling their appetites. Laurent’s throat goes a little tight. He wonders, briefly, how much of a fight Auguste will put up if he tries to leave.

“Why are we here? This seems needlessly barbaric.”

Auguste laughs, sips his wine. “I thought you, of all people my darling brother, would appreciate the sight of all that muscle and skin.”

“Oh my god,” Laurent breathes out, a half prayer, half curse. “I mean, Medieval Times…”

Auguste rolls his eyes. “As though I would be that prosaic. Medieval Times,” he says with a scoff.

Laurent rolls his eyes right back. “It’s the exact same…”

“It’s not even close, Laurent. Believe me. Just shut up and drink your wine and enjoy the show.” Auguste’s tone is a little on edge—as it gets when his random surprises for Laurent go awry—which is more often than not. Laurent knows he’s not really hurt, only disappointed because he does try to do things that make Laurent smile.

Just this? A dinner and a show with beefed up actors pretending to beat the life out of each other? He’s not entirely sure how one keeps an appetite and watches carnage. Even if it’s all corn syrup and red dye.

The lights dim shortly after, though, and as the servers bring round their main courses, the “King” and his consort approach the dais to welcome the crowd and introduce the opening act. It’s an animal show. A few big cats—Tigers, a Jaguar—and some trick horses. None of the animals are harmed, and Laurent feels strangely like he can breathe again.

Then the Gladiators are introduced.

“Pallas!” the announcer’s voice booms, and a man with more muscles than Laurent has seen on a real human walks out. He’s in polished armour with his helmet tucked under his arm, a small shield with a bull on it, and a sword at his hip. He’s dark-skinned and his black curls look oiled and wild. He gives a toothy grin to his section, waving, getting the crowd wound up. They’re chanting his name and stomping their feet.

Laurent sighs, knowing his own section will soon be joining in those… _festivities_ and Auguste might expect him to participate. Hell. He closes his eyes and breathes through his frustration.

Auguste is going to owe him a hundred coffees for this.

The second Gladiator takes the arena. “Makedon!” He’s a little older, Laurent swears he can see flecks of silver in his dark hair. His skin is a little lighter than Pallas, and his muscles sag just a fraction more. But he seems to be a crowd favourite, and someone from his section throws down a flower for him which he tucks behind his ear.

The whole thing makes Laurent want to flee.

The third Gladiator is announced. “Nikandros!” He’s younger, more fit than the other two—definitely more attractive. Oddly familiar, in fact. His skin is a deep olive, his eyes flashing with a sort of violent humour to them, his mouth in a smirk. He’s larger than the other two, and dressed in less armour. A breastplate, shin-guards which look strained round his muscles. He’s carrying no weapon, and yet he looks dangerous.

“Is he an actor or something? I swear I’ve seen him,” Laurent mutters.

Auguste laughs. “You have. He’s dating Jord.”

Laurent feels his cheeks heat at that for some reason and he thinks, _Well done, Jord_ though he’d rather rip out his own tongue than say that aloud.

The crowd goes quiet though, after Nikandros takes his final bow to his section. The lights dim, and the King’s voice takes on a sort of deeper timbre.

“And, our reigning champion, and the heir to my thrown. Crown Prince, Damianos!”

That’s Laurent’s section, but the whole arena cheers as the doors open a fourth time, and the “prince” rides out on a golden horse. He’s wearing shin and arm guards, a chiton with a red cape pinned at the shoulder. His helmet obscures his face, but Laurent can see dark curls poking out under it, and his muscles bulge with his grip on the reigns. 

_Shit_ , he thinks to himself.

Damianos dismounts, then faces the King and pulls his helmet off before bowing. Then he turns, and Laurent swears the sun has just erupted into his chest.

He’s beautiful. Possibly the most beautiful man Laurent has ever set eyes on, which is obviously a problem because his brother bloody-well knew this was going to happen. He uses everything he has in him to school his features into something resembling neutrality. He tries not to stare. He tries.

But it’s almost impossible when Damianos’ smile is made of stars, and his eyes glitter—deep and rich and dark. His curls fall round his ears, and when he smiles, he’s got a dimple in his cheek.

He’s perfect.

Laurent _hates_ him for it.

Luckily the madness of the show takes over, and there’s really only minimal audience participation which Auguste enjoys sort of quietly from his seat with the goblet in his hand. Laurent can almost see his brother as some sort of benevolent king presiding over games or…something.

This place is getting to his head, damn it, and he needs out.

He needs to stop staring at the beads of sweat pouring over Damianos’ exposed shoulders, or the way his muscles bulge as he swings a very real looking, and very real sounding sword.

It doesn’t last all night. It doesn’t even last until the pudding is served.

Pallas takes down Makedon, and then Nikandros takes down Pallas. Then Nikandros and Damianos have a battle which has the crowd tense and Laurent is confused until Auguste leans over and says, “They’ve known each other since they were toddlers, it’s for the angst.”

“Is that real life or for the show?” Laurent can’t help but ask.

Auguste chuckles. “Both. Damianos will win, but he’ll spare Nikandros’ life.”

And then that exact scene happens just as Laurent is putting the last bite of a sticky toffee pudding in his mouth. He doesn’t even really care for sweets like that, and hadn’t realised how much he’d been putting away and focussed on the scene until it was over.

Damianos helps Nikandros to his feet. They bow to the king who pardons them both. Then Damianos walks to his section and bows to them. As he rises, grinning still, Laurent’s heart nearly stops when Damianos’ eyes seem to fix right on him. The tips of his fingers press to his lips, and the kiss flies from them.

Laurent will not, he will _not_ assume, it was for him.

*** 

“I hear you saw my boyfriend in action.”

Laurent’s head snaps up from his stack of papers to see Jord leant in his doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his face set in a smirk. “Something like that. I’m surprised you went for an actor.”

Jord laughs. “He’s a personal trainer, actually. He does that on weekends. It pays well.”

Laurent lifts a brow, but he doesn’t engage in talk any further for fear that if he does, he’ll start asking questions about the other Gladiators—about Damianos, and he will not make a damned fool of himself.

“Did you enjoy it?” Jord presses after a long silence.

Laurent gives a long-suffering sigh. “The food was terrible,” is all he says.

After a second, Jord laughs again and says, “I’ll have the reports to you by noon.”

Laurent’s skin feels all hot, though, now that he’s remembering the way Damianos rode into the arena, the way he swung the sword, the cocky look on his face as he parried all of Nikandros’ thrusts. The way his fingers touched his lips, and sent a kiss floating up at him.

“Don’t bother,” Laurent says. “I’m going out for lunch.”

It’s Friday, at half eleven, and Laurent gets in his car and doesn’t even try to fool himself about whether or not he’s coming back.

*** 

He feels ridiculous. He’s fairly sure he’s the only single person at the show—most of the tables at least couples on a date, if not families. So here he is, sat in Damianos’ section near the wall, and if the cost is anything to go by, one of the most expensive seats. But whatever, he’s fully accepted that he’s an absolute disaster at this point and he might as well just wallow in it for this night since he’s never, ever doing this again.

Ever.

No matter what.

He sits back and orders wine and resigns himself to a Lyft because he can’t do this fully sober. He orders the vegetarian plate and the crowd begins to stir a little as the warm-up act begins. It’s the same as it was before, with the big cats and the trick horses and this time there’s someone twirling a flaming baton to an ancient-sounding song Laurent doesn’t recognise.

He’s leant forward trying to catch the eye of his server for more wine when his whole body goes ice cold. Two rows up and several over, right at the very edge of Damianos’ section, is Auguste. He’s there with Nicaise and Kashel, and Laurent quickly hovers back in his seat and shrinks into himself because he knows if his brother catches him at this, he will never be allowed to live this down. Ever.

He closes his eyes, breathes, prays to gods he doesn’t even think exist anymore to just…let him get through this.

Fuck.

The lights go down, and Laurent hears a funny creaking sound. He peers over and sees the doors where the Gladiators emerge, and he swears for the flash of a second, he sees Damianos’ grinning face looking right at him. Dimple and all.

But then the movement is gone and the King is speaking, and the whole scene from the weekend before replays.

Except…

Except this time, Damianos dismounts from his horse and he strolls up to the wall, right where Laurent is sat. Laurent feels his heart hammering in his throat, and his eyes are darting all over. He looks at his goblet, and the strangest thing, but there’s a flower there that wasn’t before. It’s unassuming, soft and white, innocuous save for the fact that it just appeared.

And then it all starts to make sense because Damianos’ eyes lock with his, and he puts his hand to his heart and he bows, and speaks softly into his mic pinned at the edge of his cape. “Would the most beautiful guest in attendance do me the honour of bestowing upon me a favour?”

Laurent is frozen, and he knows by this point all eyes are on him—including his family’s. He doesn’t dare look over. If he refuses, it’ll be pandemonium, and at this point there’s no reason to try and avoid it. He’s already been spotted.

He says nothing, but he can’t stop staring at Damianos’ endless eyes, the way they’re soft, and friendly, the way they look at Laurent like he’s the only thing in the room. And Laurent realises after a long moment this is probably Auguste’s doing. Auguste had probably spotted him and used his connection with Jord’s boyfriend to humiliate him.

Damianos is an amazing actor.

Laurent is cold all over, and his fingers are stiff as he pushes himself to stand. He still doesn’t look over, but he does pluck the flower from the table, and approaches the wall. Damianos steps closer, and Laurent can feel his heart rabbitting in his chest like it wants to pound its way free.

He breathes through it.

His hand lifts, and Damianos bows his head, leans closer, visibly _shivers_ as Laurent’s fingers brush the side of his face as he tucks the flower behind his ear. “Good luck,” Laurent says softly, and his voice catches in the mic. The crowd titters. Before Damianos can pull away, Laurent drifts his hand down, surreptitiously covering the mic and he whispers in Damianos’ other ear, “You and my brother are going to regret the day you were born. I do not like being made a fool of.”

Then he steps back and there’s a tick in his chest, a moment of hesitation because Damianos looks _confused_.

But Laurent refuses to be had again. He walks back to his seat and he picks up his phone and sees a single message there.

**You’re full of surprises, little brother.**.

He says nothing, doesn’t even look over.

Tonight, however, the show is different. Damianos loses, and the entire crowd and the whole cast, looks completely bewildered.

As he’s stumbling off the arena, he catches Laurent’s eye one last time, and Laurent, yet again, doubts himself.

*** 

To Auguste’s credit, he says nothing about Laurent’s visit to the Arena. Life goes on as usual. Now, when Nikandros is visiting Jord, Laurent recognises him, and he’s half sure Nikandros is watching him with a disgruntled look on his face. No doubt he recognises him from that night, maybe blames him for putting Damianos off his game.

Laurent may or may not have checked online and it turns out part of the plot is that Damianos always wins. It’s a running script—four weeks long which takes Damianos to being crowned as King. And then it resets. The plot sometimes changes, but Damianos doesn’t lose like that.

No one has ever given him a favour, either, so that’s…something.

Laurent does his best not to think about it.

Another week passes, another weekend he drives past the Arena, but doesn’t pull in, doesn’t buy a ticket.

He dreams of those deep brown eyes, and that soft dimple.

*** 

Laurent thinks it’s over, thinks he’s finally rid himself of the madness that is the Gladiator actor when he walks into his usual coffee house one Thursday afternoon after an intense string of meetings. He’s got a muffin in one hand, and a coffee in the other, and he nearly loses both to the ground when he turns and sees Damianos nearly flush against him.

Laurent’s cheeks immediately heats, and he hates himself for how red he knows he’s gone.

Vicious swears come to his lips, but he bites them back as Damianos suddenly grins—shy and sweet, and Laurent’s heart thuds again.

“Order for Damen?” the barista calls behind him.

Laurent blinks, then gives a full body shudder when Damianos’ hands fall to his shoulders and gently, _so fucking gently_ , push him to the side. They fall away with a slow drag, and Damianos approaches the counter to take his coffee.

“So,” he says, because Laurent is still standing there like an utter fool, “fancy seeing you here.” His Veretian is flawless, apart from the thick accent, and it makes Laurent want to urge him to keep talking and never stop.

Laurent swallows thickly instead and says, “Is it?”

Damianos blinks, then laughs. “I’m new to the area. To this area. My studio premises just finished construction, and I was hoping there was a decent café nearby.” He sips his coffee and hums, grinning and showing that damned dimple again.

Laurent clears his throat. “It’s…my office is…”

“I know,” Damianos says very softly.

Of course he knows. Nikandros. Jord. _Auguste_.

He feels humiliation and rage burning through him, and he turns, stalking out without even so much as a by your leave, in spite of being raised better than that. The door slams, and his heels click on the pavement, and it’s several moments before he realises he’s not alone.

In fact, it takes until a large hand brushes his shoulder, and by then he _knows_ it’s Damianos, so he spins and puts on his most fierce glower. “Wasn’t the other night enough? Or has Auguste gotten you to agree to have at it until I crack. What is it you want, exactly?”

“I…” Damianos’ hand goes to his curls and fluffs them, and he looks adorably confused—bit like a lost puppy and if Laurent were a better man, he might take pity on him. But he’s not.

“Is your name Damianos?”

It seems like he wasn’t expecting the question, because Damianos flushes darkly and says, “Ah yes?” almost like it’s a question. “Well, I mean yes, that’s my proper…my formal…” He seems to be having trouble finding the word in Veretian for it. “My familiar name is Damen. Everyone calls me…Damen,” he finishes lamely.

Laurent is helplessly charmed, and he _hates_ it. “Damen,” he tries out. It’s less of a mouthful, but oddly also less fitting for a man like Damianos who in all honesty seems like he should be a king of some gorgeous, ancient world.

“Can I…” Damen stops.

“What?” Laurent all-but barks.

Damen flushes again, and shakes his head and hunches his shoulders like he’s attempting to look smaller. “I was going to offer to buy you a coffee which…” He sort of gestures at the one Laurent is holding, and Laurent at this point _does_ crack, but not in the way perhaps Auguste was hoping. He still wants to know why this total stranger would work with Auguste to make Laurent miserable but he’s fairly sure now Damen is just a good man.

“I was heading to the little pond over there,” Laurent says, his voice still cold, but getting friendlier. “You can join me if you want.” Then he turns and keeps up a fast pace, and he smiles to himself at the sound of Damen scrambling after him.

They find an empty bench near the rotted, old wooden dock where the ducks like to nest. It’s under a long, flowing willow branch, and Laurent lets himself relax just a little. It’s foggy for now, but the sun’s getting warmer and will melt the haze soon enough.

“So, you and Auguste…”

“You keep saying that,” Damen bursts out, and he sounds exasperated. “I know him but I don’t know…I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about that little display the other night with the favour,” Laurent bites out. “The whole…” He waves his hand as though the gesture will make the entire thing make sense.

Damen’s brows furrow adorably, and he bites his lip and then he says, “That wasn’t part of the show. Normally.”

“I am aware,” Laurent says flatly.

Damen sighs, passes a hand down his face and mutters something like, “Knew you would fuck this up,” and then he laughs. “God, I just…I didn’t know you were going to be there. I saw you months ago. I went with Nik to bring lunch to Jord and you were in the corridor and you were reducing a man to nothing with just your tongue.”

Laurent can’t begin to know when that happened, because it happens often. He feels maybe he should be embarrassed by it, but he’s not.

Damen carries on. “I couldn’t stop staring. You were terrifying and beautiful. Jord introduced me to your brother and I made my…intentions known. Auguste laughed at me, said he hadn’t yet met a single man strong enough or brave enough to withstand you.”

At this, Laurent flushes. He knows he’s not the friendliest, but he doesn’t always mean to be an unapproachable asshole. At least not all the time. Not always. “I…” he starts, but has no follow up.

“He told me he’d bring you to a show. And he did, and I saw you there and you looked miserable,” he breaths out the last word like a whisper. “I assumed that you wouldn’t give me a second glance. But then…”

“I came back,” Laurent says quietly.

“You came back, you bought an expensive table, right in my section, close enough all I’d have to do is reach out to touch you,” Damen says, his voice a little afraid, a little reverent.

Laurent takes a drink of his coffee for something to do, because internally he’s seconds away from combusting.

“I asked Erasmus to put the flower on your table, to see if you’d…” Damen clears his throat. “And then you did. I thought…but then you…”

Laurent knows exactly what he did. He gave him the favour, then threatened him, and didn’t show up again.

“I wasn’t entirely sure where I’d gone wrong. I mean, I know I overstepped. That’s kind of…well. Typical,” he says, and laughs at himself.

Laurent is more and more charmed. Hell.

“But you can’t be angry with Auguste. He didn’t know,” Damen says, almost like he’s begging and he actually looks worried.

Laurent’s eyebrows fly up. “You think I’m upset with my brother.”

“You aren’t?” Damen sounds…relieved? Something like it, at least. “Last time we texted, he said you were barely speaking with him.”

“I’m always barely speaking with him over some matter or another. It’s just how we are,” Laurent says, waving his hand dismissively. “I did assume he had set this up. He’s always trying to get me to be…less me.”

“Oh. No.”

Laurent frowns. “No?”

“I mean,” Damen says, then huffs a laugh. “I mean you seem…I like you. You shouldn’t be less you.”

“Less me would probably have a better social life.”

“With the wrong people,” Damen says, and sounds strangely vehement, almost angry. He catches himself, gives another sheepish grin, sighs. “I just mean…if people don’t like you for you, they’re not the right sort, are they?” His hand raises, almost like maybe he wants to touch him, but he stops himself and Laurent feels a sudden wave of disappointment.

“So what sort are you?” he finally asks, feeling brave and a little bit reckless because okay yes, he’s been pining. He’s been pining and he thought this was nothing more than a fantasy. He’s seen Damen’s thick thighs in his dreams and here they are all…straining against his jeans. His breath is shaky. 

“I’m…I _hope_ I’m the right sort. The sort that is wildly attracted to the way you reduce men to nothing for incompetence. And equally attracted to the way you seem a little shy. The way you fiercely protect your pride, the way you’re still willing to give me a chance here on this bench even after you thought I had…” He stops himself.

Laurent’s cheeks are violently pink, and he’s leaning forward to put his coffee down because he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get his hands on Damen in some capacity in the next nine seconds, he’s going to die. Damen does not miss the gesture, but instead of going for it, he holds himself still, lets Laurent lead the contact.

Laurent thinks maybe he’s fallen in love with him right in this moment, however mad that is. He shifts closer, close enough their thighs touch. Damen lets out a breath like it’s been punched out of him. Laurent offers his hand, and Damen seizes it like they’re magnetic. His hand is huge on Laurent’s fine-boned wrist, holds it delicately, like Laurent is something precious. They shift together this time.

Damen lifts Laurent’s hand and brushes his lips across the backs of his knuckles. Laurent’s breath trembles, but he tightens his grip instead of pulling away. “Can I take you to dinner?” Damen says, a hint of begging in his voice.

Laurent can’t help his lips from quirking up at the corners, into a genuine smile he reserves for the truly precious moments in his life. Like this one. “Dinner.”

“It’s a thing. I’ve heard people who go on dates do that,” Damen says, teasing.

Laurent allows himself the quietest chuckle. “Is that so?”

“I’m not an expert,” Damen confesses. “But I thought maybe…”

“Yes,” Laurent says in a rush, and then bites his lip before he says anything else to embarrass himself. “So long as there’s no performance to go with it.”

Damen laughs, deep-chested and as gorgeous as everything else about him. He tugs Laurent even closer, puts his head low, almost nuzzling Laurent’s cheek with his nose. “If there’s any performance, I promise, it’ll be for an audience of one.”

Laurent shivers, turns his head to face him. “Alright,” he murmurs.

Damen’s hand reaches for his face, cups his cheek. “I assume you need to get back to work.”

It’s a painful truth. Laurent forces himself to nod.

Damen nods, then puts his forehead to Laurent’s. “Tonight? Tell me you’re free tonight.”

“I’m free,” Laurent says automatically, knowing even if he wasn’t, he’d make sure every other thing was cancelled.

“Then I’ll pick you up after work.”

“I can’t wait,” Laurent says as Damen pulls away, extends a hand to help him up. On his feet, Damen takes his hand again, kisses his palm, the inside of his wrist. Laurent swears nothing else in the world exists except this.

“See you soon,” Damen says, then with a slow drag of his fingers across Laurent’s hand, he backs away.

Laurent is slightly cold from the loss, but knows that tonight after work, he’ll be kept very, very warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to find me on tumblr, [itwasseven](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itwasseven)


End file.
